


Titles Don't Matter (or I can't think of a title)

by victor_fucking_hugo



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Humor, Combeferre Knows Everything, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, F/M, I Blame Tumblr, I tried being funny, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, but mostly my horrid attempts at humor, jehan is a poet and you know he hardcore does slam poety, kinda sad, oh well, that's pretty much it, this is too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victor_fucking_hugo/pseuds/victor_fucking_hugo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras (unsurprisingly) doesn't believe in the idea of 'soulmates'. He hates the concept and will most likely (he does) shout about it at protests. (Of course he does)</p>
<p>Being more than insistent upon absolutely not meeting his soulmate, ever, Enjolras easily finds a way to avoid his so-called 'one and only'.</p>
<p>This is until a sarcastic, cynical, extremely hungover man that is just on the edge of not quite pulling off the, 'I'm really gross right now, but I'm pulling it off somehow' look crushes all of Enjolras' attempts at avoidance with a couple of words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Titles Don't Matter (or I can't think of a title)

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came out of nowhere. Literally right out of my ass. I'm not even a fan a cheese so idk what to tell you. Sorry?
> 
>  
> 
> I'm not very talented in this whole 'comedy' and 'humor' category thingy. But I gave it my best shot. 
> 
>  
> 
> I write a lot of Les Mis shit but this is the first one I'm posting so feedback is appreciated .-. 
> 
> ^_^

It wasn’t that Enjolras hated cheese. Hell, it could be his favorite food in the entire world and he would even never know. He wasn’t _bitter_ about it. No, not at all. Not in the tiniest, slightest bit. Perhaps if Enjolras’ mind was more simplistic he would be angered by it, maybe even resent the person who had doomed him to a cheesless life. But, in the end, Enjolras’ mind worked almost like a machine (Courfeyrac would even argue sometimes that Enjolras was a robot that was too smart to know he was a robot. The idea, while idiotic, did make Enjolras think a little bit harder about his actions and thoughts every now and again). Mixed together with Enjolras’ stubbornness and his urgent need to be in control, he was able to coast through life thinking of cheese as nothing more than a supplement he needed to run _far away from._

And he did--on multiple occasions in fact every since the blemish had appeared on the dorsal side of his collarbone just a couple of months after his fifteenth birthday. Enjolras could still remember standing in front of his full length mirror, shirt off and chest heaving in anger, as he took in the crudely written words:

_What kind of cheese shit are you eating?_

Ever since the mark appeared, Enjolras’ goal in life was to stay clear of _it_. If cheese was in the room--he wasn’t. It was as simple as that.

It could be simple things like in high school when Feuilly had gotten that new job at the Burger Hut and had offered Enjolras and Courfeyrac a large pile of _cheese_ straws that were apparently a mix between normal fries and whatever special spices the Burger Hut threw upon them. They were delicious, mouth-watering in fact, and Enjolras could tell just by the smell of them. But, despite the pleasant aroma, Enjolras had booked it from the shop as soon as Feuilly had brought the straws out of the kitchen without saying a word and didn’t stop till he was back at his home even though Courfeyrac had driven them the short two miles to Burger Hut. Courfeyrac and Feuilly couldn’t look him in the eye for a week after that without bursting into a fit of giggles.

Other times it could be more serious, and _far more_ inappropriate. On his eighteenth birthday, his ninety year old great-grandmother had come to visit from across the country. At the time, she hadn’t seen Enjolras since he was too small to even talk leaving her completely oblivious to Enjolras’ strict no cheese or I’m out rule. So, when the feeble old lady with starch white hair and trembling, cracked lips presented a cake before Enjolras’ eyes that smelled like heaven and was completely covered in fresh strawberries and cream, Enjolras’ couldn’t help but tense up in absolute fear. Well, it wasn’t just _any cake. Of course it wasn’t. It had to be cheese cake_. Sucking in a deep breathe through his nostrils, Enjolras’ mind went on the fritz and he pushed past the old lady, his voice hushed and almost non existent, “I gotta go.”

In the process, he knocked the cake out of her thin arms and nearly knocked her over in the process and bolted out the door like a wild gazelle that was being hunted down by a predator.

It had taken a week for his great grandmother to forgive him, a good sixth month before his mom would address him about the situation, and a solid year before his friends stopped teasing him about it. (In case you were wondering, no, Enjolras had definitely not forgiven himself for it. His pride wouldn’t allow it) Comeberre, bless his heart, was easily the most sentimental over the subject. Courfeyrac would rather just sling his arm around Jehan and laugh into his shoulder about Enjolras’ _completely justified fear_.

_(“It was cheesecake. It doesn’t even look like cheese!” Courfeyrac had said, his voice choking through a laugh that erupted from his throat like a volcano._

_Enjolras glared at him, though it did little to settle Courfeyrac and half of the groups laughter, “It doesn’t matter if it looks like cheese. It’s--”_

_“He even says the word cheese like it’ll poison him or something. You’re my favorite, Enjolras, truly.” Courfeyrac stuttered, sending Bahorel into a frenzy of loud howls of laughter that erupted around the Musain. The waitress, Musichetta, sent them a dirty look, but even she had the slightest of a smile on the edge of her lips at the situation at hand. Enjolras just buried his face into his palms and prayed for a quick death into the next world.)_

Cosette, and maybe Marius (on a good day, maybe), were easily the most understanding of the situation. Them having already found each other before anyone else in the group had.

Cosette and Marius’ marks were _memorable._ Cosette had showed Enjolras’ her mark after the incident with the cheescake. Enjolras didn’t ask for it, but Cosette seemed to know exactly what Enjolras needed at the time. Cosette was nice, she deserved better than an idiot like Marius, but said idiot loved her like no one else could and she seemed happier with him than ever. Her mark was on the inside of her wrist and scribbled on with neat, flowing letters...until the last word that is.

_You smell like flowers...sorry._

Enjolras even chuckled at the messy font that the last word had acquired already imagining Marius’ flushed face as he uttered the word. _The idiot would say something dumb like that._ Marius’ was on the back of his neck with italicized font:

_You look like a rosebud._

“He really was blushing horribly,” Cosette had explained to him, the corners of her thin lips pulling up into a smile. Marius next to her was grinning as well, his eyes widening slightly the longer he look down at her--like there was nothing else in the world.

Enjolras excused himself from the table at that point, not sure if he could stand another minute of watching Marius’ lovey-dovey faces.

His friends and family had all tried to tell him that it was a completely natural thing to get at his age, but still Enjolras found himself _disgusted_ by this. He was completely disturbed by the whole idea of ‘soulmates’ and how unjust the whole ordeal seemed. And when Enjolras was disgusted by something-- _he destroyed it._ Normally through lots of passionate yelling. Cosette and Marius had helped, showing him their not-so-perfect soulmate marks. Jehan’s and Courfeyrac’s only made Enjolras feel worse though.

Jehan’s and Courfeyrac’s were _beautiful._ In their own misinterpreted way.Perhaps it had to do with Jehan being a poet and an English major and Courfeyrac just being a huge sap (and sometimes idiot) whenever it came to romantic matters, but that still didn’t change the fact that their marks were a thing of pure luck and coincidence that ended in them making something truly meaningful. Something that could easily be found in any hip, teen romance book series today.

_Follow love and it will flee. Flee love and it will follow thee._

You bet your ass I will.

(Okay, maybe Courfeyrac’s response was not the most _beautiful_ response in the history of time, but as far as responses go...Jehan seemed to think it was perfect.)

Jehan had explained to Enjolras multiple times how they had met. Jehan had been at a poetry slam contest on the outskirts of town when he was handed a piece to read in front of the crowd, or at least incorporate with one of his original pieces, that he wasn’t familiar with at all. So, he set himself down at a table in the back and began whispering the poem allowed, trying to memorize at least bits and chunks of it before he had to perform it on stage. That, of course, is when Courfeyrac separated himself from the table occupied by him, Feuilly, Bossuet, and Combeferre to go chat up ’the hot poet in the flower print pants’. Courfeyrac had just sauntered over when the words, _‘Flee love and it will follow thee’_ and had left Jehan’s slightly parted lips, his eyes still glued to the paper before him. Now, if Courfeyrac had taken any consideration to the piece of poetry that had been written in fine, cursive letters on his chest for a good portion of his life maybe he would’ve thought about another piece to say when he finally came in contact with his soulmate. Maybe something romantic from Shakespeare, Robert Frost, _Oprah_ , _anyone or anything really_. But, alas, Courfeyrac lives in the moment and has no time meddling in the past to prepare for it. Instead, he shot Jehan his cheekiest grin and uttered the words scribbled just above Jehan’s kneecap in curly, messy swoops.

 

Feuilly and Bahorel’s were _interesting_. But, not completely uncommon, except for the fact that Bahorel was a sleazy bastard and decided to take fate into his own hands when sprawled across his right hip read: _Welcome to Walmart, what can I do for you?_ So, it wasn’t quite a surprise that when Feuilly had asked Bahorel that exact question that Bahorel knew exactly what he was going to say. And that was how Feuilly ended up with the words, _You can do me a solid and let me have all of you, sweetcheeks_ across his lower back in thick, impact letters.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s marks were _complicated_. Joly had Musichetta’s writing scribbled onto the bottom arch of his foot that read, _Oh, well just that’s great._ Musichetta’s had Bousett’s large, slompy letters plastered onto her right rib cage, _Hot damn, you’re both gorgeous._ And lastly, Bossuet had Joly’s small word scribbled onto his right calf, _Oh sorry I--wait, what did you just say?_ Basically the story was Musichetta was working late at the Musain when Joly stumbled in and Bossuet was already hunched over at a single table near the back. Somehow, in one way or another, they all collided causing Joly to bump into Chetta and send the coffees she was delivering to a table all over the front of her shirt and onto Bossuet’s shoes. Chetta had said her line first, prompting Joly to ask her what she had just said, and then Bossuet to finish it all off with declaring that they were both gorgeous. It was cute, a little strange to think about, but they made it work more beautifully than anyone could’ve ever believed possible.

In the end, that left only Combeferre and Enjolras alone in their group. Enjolras had made it more than clear that he wanted nothing to do with his soulmate and found the whole idea demeaning and out of his line of basic rights. Combeferre didn’t say too much about it, but some people in the group had their suspicions on whether or not he actually cared to meet his soulmate or not. After all, there was only one person in the group whose mark was worse than Enjolras’--and that of course was Combeferre’s.

_FUCK NUGGETS_

The words were written largely (much larger than a normal soulmate mark--four times larger in fact), boldly, and directly across Combeferre’s bicep for the world to see. It didn’t help that the words were capitalized and even had an unusual, faint swoop underneath all the letters almost as if they were being underlined. When it had first appeared on his arm when he was sixteen (his parent’s immediately ordered that he had it covered up or removed. Combeferre had flat out refused for reasons unknown and no one, not even his own parents, were about to challenge Combeferre when he made up his mind) the rest of the group, those who were in it at the time like Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Marius, Bossuet, and Feuilly, were more horrified with it than Combeferre seemed to be, or at least showed. After he had shown them, he simply hefted his long-sleeve shirt back down over his arm like it was nothing. He gave them a little shrug before pushing his glasses up the brink of his nose, “Nothing I can do about it. I’m sure it’ll all make sense when the time comes.”

Enjolras was baffled by Combeferre’s reaction, Courfeyrac was more than amused, and the rest were just downright confused. Then again though, Combeferre _would_ be the one to be completely cool about having such a vulgar slur of words upon his skin. Courfeyrac would probably just find it hilarious and boast about it. Combeferre, Enjolras again decided, was a God among mere mortals and accepted the fact that he would never understand the way his mind works.

Enjolras was a firm believer against the idea of soulmates. Of course he wasn’t as firm about it as others stances he took considering most of his friends were all in happy relationships with their partner(s). But deep down, he knew all of them understood his reasons for disagreeing with the process of how humans were supposed to find their significant other--and it wasn’t just because of his horrid soulmate mark. The idea was against everything he stood for. Equality for all and that every person had a right and _a choice._ Making a human be bound down to just one person their entire life without any certain guarantee that they will ever find them is inhumane. There were no organizations, no funds, _no anything_ to ensure people happiness and instead the whole load was all left up to simple and unreliable _luck_ (some people confused this term with _fate_. Enjolras was a firm believer against that idea as well). There were people who never did find their soulmates, or found them when they were old and their lives were almost coming to an end anyway. They were stripped of the right to find love and instead waited their entire lives for it and it either never came or came too late. The idea made Enjolras’ stomach churn horribly and his resentment towards soulmate marks increase, creating a fire of rebellion within him.

He would never find his soulmate and he was _fine_ with that. After all, if his soulmate was so ‘right’ for him then surely they would understand and perhaps even agree that the whole concept of soulmates was wrong. He did consider himself slightly lucky though. Combeferre and his other friends had no way of avoiding their soulmates (except Bahorel, but he seemed more than keen to find his and went to Walmart at least twelve times a week before he found Feuilly), Enjolras’ was all too easy to avoid. Avoid _cheese_ equaled avoid soulmate. The plan could never fail.

So, when Enjolras had entered the Musain that morning for a quick breakfast with Feuilly and Combeferre before his first lecture he didn’t even mind that he was a bit early meeting them there and would be doomed to sit by himself for a couple minutes, if not longer. He sat down at their usual table alone and waited patiently for Chetta to come take his order. When she arrived, her dark hair pulled up into a messy bun atop of her head and her dark red lipstick shining against the light seeping in through the window, she smiled down at him, “The usual then?”

Enjolras smiled up at her gratefully, his head was still pounding from last night when he had to stay up cramming with Combeferre for their next poli sci exam coming up and the last thing he wanted was to engage in small chat. Chetta seemed to understand without Enjolras uttering a word to her, “Thanks Chetta.”

“No problem.” She said, her lips piercing smacking against her top lip as she scribbled down Enjolras’ order. She was about to walk away, Enjolras could see the tilt of her shoulder leaning back towards the kitchen, but she stopped mid-stride before turning back, “Hey, ‘Parnasse stayed late last night cooking up some hummus. It’s homemade and smells like the fucking gods came down themselves from Olympus and pissed on it...that was meant to say that it's like really good, trust me the boy can be an asshole sometimes but he knows how to cook. You wanna try some? On the house of course.”

Enjolras saw no reason to deny her kind offer, though he could do without the image of the greek god reference. Hummus and chips sounded more than delightful especially after such a rough night. When Musichetta left, Enjolras sunk down into his seat and let out a hefty sigh. His hands plunged into his thick curls as he pushed them back and out of his tired eyes. The Musain was quiet, only a few people sat at the tables and even fewer were crowded around the bar. It was an awkward sight considering how packed it usual is here every week when Enjolras’ and his group held their meeting here. In a way though, Enjolras welcomed the strange silence and let the sun from the window shine down upon him willingly.

Chetta returned only minutes later, a big platter resting on her shoulder and was supported only by her right arm. He couldn’t help but beam as Musichetta set the delectable sandwich in front of him along with a large cup of coffee and the bowl of hummus and chips. Chetta hummed in amusement at the look on Enjolras’ face before turning around and heading back to the kitchen.

Enjolras checked his phone and realized that he was still way too early. Feuilly and Combeferre probably wouldn’t be here for another ten or fifteen minutes. Shrugging slightly, Enjolras picked up the sandwich, the rich bread crunching under his firm grip, before taking a large bite. He knew his friends wouldn’t mind him eating without them, they were used to Enjolras’ ‘you’re either thirty minutes earlier or late’ tactic.

It was only when Enjolras began digging into the small bowl of hummus that his collarbone began to tingle. It was only a slight tinge of something, like an extra layer of clothing had been draped over that spot of his body. Enjolras’ pushed the uncomfortable sensation away, blaming it on the light shining down on him from the large glass windows that covered the Musain and the stiffness he felt in his neck in general from bending over a textbook all night. He focused more on the way the hummus melted against his tongue, sending shots of flavor up and around his taste buds. Chetta was right, ‘Parnasse definitely knew his way around the kitchen.

Enjolras found himself completely entranced in his breakfast. All thoughts left his brain and no longer could he worry himself about thinking about the next rally he had arranged to happen in two weeks outside of the Musain (after getting Chetta’s approval, of course), his mounts of studies piled up on his desk back at his dorm, Bahorel and Feuilly’s new ‘pet’ squirrel that Bahorel had yet to find in their cramped dorm room (and _No_ , pets definitely weren’t allowed on campus), Jehan’s horrid scarf that he had knitted for Enjolras (that he had yet to think of a way to discard without being too obvious about it) that still lay upon his red winter coat at home _waiting for him_ , the bill he and Combeferre had been discussing with the rest of the group at the last meeting they held, Joly’ and Bousett’s ‘low-key social gathering’ next weekend that would _definitely_ not have alcohol according to Courfeyrac, Cosette’s photo collage display at the new art show next month that she had been working tirelessly on all semester, and...well, there’s _Marius_ , being _Marius_ that Enjolras found himself not caring about either. It was nice, in a way. It helped him relax and let go of all the stress that was flooding his mind and just-- _eat_.

It was only when the sunshine that had been beating down on him was suddenly cut off that Enjolras bothering looking up. He was immediately greeted with shadowed blue eyes. Deep blue eyes that reminded Enjolras of the sea after a storm. Enjolras’ collarbone burned wickedly. The man was unfamiliar, a little on the short side, and looked kind of hung over judging by the large, black bags and bloodshot eyes. His hair was a wild mess and most of the loose strands were shoved messily up into a maroon beanie, but some ringlets still spilled out and curved around his rough, jagged features. He wasn’t ugly by any means, in a way he even worked the ‘slob’ look to a point that Enjolras couldn’t understand even what he was talking about in his own mind. Stubble was scattered across his chin, parts of his cheeks, and even sprinkled about the top of his neck. He was swaying slightly, his brown jacket wrapped tightly around his torso as his hands pressed into the pockets, pulling it taut against his shoulders. His jeans were loose against his hips and hung down way more than Enjolras would ever deem necessary. To his shock though, the stranger seemed to be smiling down at him, a crooked and unreadable smile that Enjolras found himself staring at in confusion.

The man huffed, his eyes wandering over Enjolras’ slowly, unimpressed, “What kind of cheese shit are you eating?”

Enjolras had stiffened at the word _cheese,_ but went completely stone still as the stranger finished his sentence. He had become a statue, Courfeyrac warned him this would always happen if he got any more good looking, but _why_ did it have to happen like _this?_

Enjolras’ mouth fell open and his eyes widened drastically in a matter of seconds. He didn’t register the sandwich falling out of his grasp until it hit his lap and tumbled to the floor below, only half-eaten and now completely ruined.

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…._

The stranger reeled back a little, his lips now pressed into a thin line as he looked down at Enjolras. He looked uncomfortable, probably more unsure than anything maybe, but kept the smile on his face as best as he could. His hand, gloved with the fingertips looking like they had been chewed off and were no longer covering his fingers at all, came out of his pocket, a little hesitant at first, before pointing down towards the bowl of hummus in front of him, “Cool it dude, I wasn’t like--ah. I mean, um..your ah-- _that,_ yeah. It smells fucking delicious, I just wanted to know what it was...is it like some fancy cheese fo--”

“It’s. Hummus.” Enjolras said with far more hostility and anger than he meant to. The words were practically forced through his clenched teeth. He could already hear Combeferre’s voice in the back of his head telling him to calm down and that he was going to regret his decisions later. Enjolras promptly shoved Combeferre’s (true, Combeferre was always right) words to the very back of his mind and let his blind anger and annoyance take over.

The stranger dropped the smile completely at that point. His face was nearly blank, open and untainted by any expression. His hand was still outstretched towards the bowl between them as if pointing at it would _suddenly_ make this situation make more sense. He stopped swaying; his body was nearly as still as Enjolras’ now except his eyes held a tint of something that Enjolras couldn’t read. Shock? Surprise? The ‘I’m definitely going to go throw up now’ face? A mixture of all three perhaps.

His mouth opened slightly and, tilting his head back a little, he said, “ _Oh._ ”

 

Enjolras stifled out a choked breath, his teeth finally unclenching and releasing all the tension in his jaw. His eyes narrowed down at the stranger before him who now had a look of horror and…. _was that amusement on his face?_ How the two emotions could be blended together so perfectly was beyond Enjolras at that point. Enjolras said, his words firm and holding a slight hint of anger to them, “Yeah. _Oh_.”

The stranger’s mouth dropped lower, eyes too wide to be real. His hand slowly trailed between himself, the bowl of hummus, and Enjolras--like he was trying to solve some sort of mystery in his head. His mouth clamped shut, then opened again as if he were going to say something, then abruptly shut it again. When this little pointing and mouth opening/closing act happened again and again and _again_ Enjolras was positive that he was about to explode from the annoyance that was scratching the inside of his cranium like some wild animal. Right before he was about to interject, the stranger said, throat cracked and dry, _“Oh_.”

Enjolras’ eye twitched involuntarily. It was no different than the first time he had said it, maybe an octave or two higher but that wasn’t the point. Enjolras fists balled up tightly, “Is that all you can say?”

The stranger, still staring at the hummus bowl while his finger pointed at his own chest, finally looked up to meet Enjolras’ gaze, “No, I mean-- _shit_ ,” The stranger cursed softly, his hands coming up and ranking through his hair like a lawnmower. His beanie nearly slipped off his head but the stranger somehow maneuvered it back over his curls with skill. His head was darting side to side, as if taking in his surrounding would somehow make this seem more surreal, “And here I thought--damn. This is-- _fuckin’_ \--and you’re all.. _.What?_ ”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes falling closed, “Stop babbling like an idiot. You’re giving me a headache. Is it really that surprising?" A pause. The stranger just gaped at him, prompting Enjolras to mumble, "That’s what you get for talking to strangers.”

Enjolras never said he wasn’t an asshole. Courfeyrac reminded him that he was constantly, but even some times Enjolras had to disagree with him and tell Courfeyrac that he was being _fair._ And right then, yeah, he would _definitely_ let Courfeyrac tell him he was being a raging asshole. Cause he was.

“Your logic, _never talk to strangers_ ….it’s intriguing,” The stranger breathed, sounding slightly out of breathe. Enjolras couldn’t help but glower at him as he sat down across from him. His eyes held a hint of uncertainty, but he sat down nevertheless. “Still, it’s not everyday you meet the one person you are doomed to spend the rest of your life with. Amiright?”

Enjolras held back a groan as he buried his face into his hands. He was…. _sarcastic._ Horrible, absolutely horrible trait to have. Enjolras could barely stand it, his mind was racing at a million miles per hour and all he could do was twists his fingers up in his hair in frustration. He needed to call Combeferre, _no_ , he needed to visit his great grandmother's grave and tell her he was sorry he ruined her last cheesecake for _nothing. Fuckin’ hell._

The stranger started talking, but Enjolras was already staring down at the table, his hands bunched up in his hair, “Damn kid, don’t beat yourself up over this. Haven’t you read any of the storybooks? This is the greatest, most magical night of our entire lives.” Enjolras didn’t have it in him to point out that the sun hadn’t even reached it’s highest peak in the sky yet.

The stranger’s voice said, obviously now having his wits back. In other words, the complete opposite of what Enjolras was feeling. “It’s not like it’s the end of _your_ world. It’s just the end of _our_ world. _Together as one. Yippee._ ” He deadpanned.

Enjolras lifted up his head, his eyes probably blotchy and red from where his palms had dug into them in a failed attempt at composing himself. He was greeted by the sight of the stranger digging into the bowl of hummus with one of Enjolras’ tortilla chips. A look of utter bliss spread across his face as he took a huge bite of it, eyes rolling back a little into his skull in delight.

_“Mmmmmm,”_ The stranger groaned, throwing his head back. Enjolras watched in absolute horror as the stranger strained his neck far back over the head of the chair. He reminded Enjolras of some contorting monster in those cheap, low budget horror flicks that Bahorel was always trying to get him to watch. When the stranger once again met his eyes, a full grin was spread across his features, “ _Damn_ , this shit almost makes me not regret coming over here to try and chat you up.” The stranger suddenly opens his gloved left palm and glances down at it, a smile etched onto his features like he was remembering an inside joke of the sort, “ _Hummus._ Who would’ve known?”

“Everyone knows.” Enjolras finds himself snapping, his hands a jittering mess against the table. “Literally everyone--How did you--What kind of cheese-- _hummus. It’s hummus._ I ca--”

“I know.” The stranger says, suddenly lifting up his left hand and tearing off the tattered glove. Once he had torn the cloth off and tossed it on the table, he showed the inside of his hand to Enjolras. The man’s hand looked rough, covered in cracks and smudges of paint. Enjolras’ still found himself squinting at the fine, _red_ print scrawled across the stranger’s palm. _It’s. Hummus_. “Or, I guess I do now.”

“It’s red.” Enjolras said, taken aback a bit by the strange color. Enjolras had done more than dabble in the history of soulmate marks. It was his number one rule: if he was going to protest, demolish, and destroy a construct of society he had to know all about it first. Soulmate marks were known to come in many different shapes, sizes, and fonts. Some even came in the form of pictures and splotches of random color that some even confused as birth marks until they met their ‘significant other’. But Enjolras had yet to see one where the words had a distinct color to it.

“Pretty cool, huh.” The stranger grinned at him, taking another tortilla chip stacked with hummus into his mouth. He wiped his hand on his jeans shamelessly while chomping loudly before swallowing the chip and paste. Enjolras cringed at the behavior. “You know, for a while I thought my soulmate had to be the blood moon….when it turns red up in the sky…?”

Enjolras shot him a glare, “I know what the blood moon is.”

The stranger ignored his hostile remark, continuing cheerfully, “I figured one season in the sky it was just gonna shout down to me ‘It’s. Hummus.’ and then I would know we were destined to be with each other forever.” He chuckled, his voice laced with sarcasm, literally overflowing with it. Enjolras feared any moment he would get caught up and drown in it. “I guess now there’s you, a shame really. Me and the moon would’ve made a great couple. Long distance relationships are a bitch, but we’d work it out.”

Enjolras’ fingernails dug into his palms until he was sure that if he pressed any harder he would draw blood. _Sarcasm. It had to be sarcasm, didn’t it?_ Enjolras let out a shaky breath, his nostrils flaring, “How can you be so calm about this?”

The stranger grinned at him lazily, “You were the one a minute ago telling me that I shouldn’t be surprised my soulmate looks like he stepped out of one of those pamphlets they give you at school about _what’s gonna happen when you meet your soulmate_. Seriously dude, the face, the hair, the shimmering blue eyes that look like they want to kill me, the cheekbones, the whole greek god thing you got going is--I dig it.” The stranger bites his lower lip, his hands, one covered and the other exposed, steadily coming up and beating on the end of the table rhythmically, “You make me want to take back every comment I made directed at the school board that not everyone’s soulmate can look like _prince charming in the flesh.”_

Enjolras let out a deep breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring in anger, “That _isn’t_ what I meant. Obviously, no matter how hard I tried, _this_ was bound to happen because of your lack of knowledge on a well-known dip. That doesn’t mean you have to act so casually and care free about it. It’s off putting.”

The stranger had now lifted his foot onto the other chair beside him, his black, muddy shoe rubbing against the delicate fabric that padded the seat. He was leaning back comfortably and had pulled off his tattered beanie and was now staring down at it, pushing his fingers through the large holes that were scattered about the material. His eyes never left the piece of fabric, but he still answered, “What can I say, _Apollo_? I take life as it comes--shitty, unexpected, and unwanted. It’s easier than trying to fight off the inevitable.”

“There is no such thing as the _inevitable._ Everything and everyone can change if need be. If the world needs to be changed on a certain matter, that is.” Enjolras said.

“No such thing as the inevitable?” The stranger asked, his eyebrows raising in question and amusement. He licked his lips, Enjolras may or may not have carefully watched the movement, before he continued, “What if you don’t believe in taking shits? Are you just going to fight off that urge on pure willpower alone? Ha, good luck with that.”

Enjolras’ glare intensifies, he isn’t sure how this argument had transpired or even started, but he was never a person a back down from a fight no matter the environment around him, “You know I didn’t mean it that way, more like a general statement.”

The stranger shrugs, taking another chip, before saying, “So, tell me your beef with soulmates then, yeah? Obviously you don’t think it is inevitable.” Enjolras shoots him a look that makes the stranger shove the chip in his mouth and raise his hands up above his head, “Hey, hey, don’t give me that look. I got little to work with here. You’re obviously not very keen with this whole soulmate deal and I’m just curious alright? What made Apollo so angry about meeting his significant other?”

It’s clear that the stranger is just trying to get a rise out of him, but still Enjolras takes a shaky breath, “Go on. I’d rather hear your theory.”

Enjolras didn’t process the words till they were out in the open. _Had he seriously just asked for someone else's’ opinion before giving his own? What kind of backwards world did he land in--_

The stranger grins, his head cocked slightly to the side. His mouth hangs open a bit, not far enough that he looks surprised, but enough that he looks genuinely entertained at whatever Enjolras’ face is doing at the moment. The thought makes Enjolras glower at him. “Alright, blondie, I’ll tell you my theories.” His lips twitch, there is dangerous playfulness in his eyes, “My theories _on you_.” When Enjolras gives him a confused look he scoffs, “The way I see it, you’re a crazy, delusional, naive kid that thinks soulmates are the most unjust and terrible thing to happen to the human population since George Bush first got elected. You probably believe some bullshit about _fairness and equality and everyone should have a choice_. Hell, I bet that rally they are having here in what-- _two weeks_? That’s you...isn’t it? What? Don’t give me that look, Apollo-- _I’m complimenting you_ , kinda. I mean, the rally is a cute idea but it’s not gonna work. I’ll give you brownie points for effort though. But hey, I bet you are the fearless leader in red during rallies, yeah? Pretty as an adolescent teenage boy but somehow still scary enough to make a grown man shit his pants if they don’t agree with you on tax finance reforms. That could go on the head of your gravestone. There, that’s a compliment.”

Enjolras could say _so many things_. Retort with so many different opinions, ideas, and strike down every accusation this stranger has made into the ground but--he holds back. Why? Well...he isn’t quite sure. Too tired to fight back? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. Enjolras could be half-dead and running on nothing but cheap coffee and still punch a bitch who dared hurt his friends or mocked his beliefs.

Nevertheless, Enjolras holds his tongue, suppresses all of his anger (just like Combeferre had reminded him multiple times to do in these situations), and sighs deeply.

“First off,” Enjolras said, his chest heaving up and down, “don’t you _dare_ bring up the election of 2000 in my presence unless you want to hear a detailed rant on why the electoral process in this country is almost as fucked up as…. _what?_ ”

The stranger’s grin is enough to halt Enjolras. His look is all too revealing. He knew he had in fact won the battle. His shoulders drew together in glee, “So I was right. _(No, you’re wrong. So wrong_. Enjolras can’t help but think pitifully.)” The stranger drags the pad on his thumb and forefinger along the slick wooden top of the table, nodding slowly, “That’s cute, makes sense really. I’ve been seeing those kind of posters about those damn protests everywhere and, well now I know who is responsible. Of course, it was either that option or you were just really pissed about seeing what a fucking piece of work your _one and only_ turned out to be.” The stranger motions down to himself lazily, “I mean, it’s not like I was expecting you to embrace me with your big, strong arms the moment our eyes connected and I asked you about your not-so-cheesey sauce stuff, or, you know, throw me down on the table and start angrily making out or anything like th--”

Enjolras chokes on nothing, he manages to utter, “Stop that.”

The stranger laughed, his smile wavering slightly, “Are you going to make me? But remember-- _I’m the inevitable in your life_. Gonna be pretty hard to fight against that, but I’m sure you’ll find a way, Apollo.”

“Stop calling me that, _you goon._ ”

Now it is the stranger’s turn to choke on nothing, “Did you just call me…. _a goon?_ ”

“Did you just compare me to a mythological God that is literally the God of plague? I’ll call you whatever I please.”

The stranger just laughs, shaking his head. He says, "Most people associate him with music, poetry, and light but nice try there.”

The hairs on the back of Enjolras’ neck were now suddenly on edge, his hand longed to reach up and furiously twist a piece of hair in between his fingers to try and calm his racing mind. _New topic, change the topic, new topic_. He says, knawing hesitantly on his bottom lip, “Are you telling me you agree with this… _.social norm._ Soulmate marks that is. That none of us have a choice or say in who we love or don’t.”

It was the easiest topic to go back to, after all it was the whole reason why they were talking at all in the first place.

“Who said soulmates have to be about love?” The stranger asked, absentmindedly toying with the zipper of his thick jacket. It would've been strangely adorable if Enjolras wasn't already riled up, ready to say his opinion to this heathen before him.

“It shouldn’t be a surprise to you. Most people in the world associate the term ‘soulmate’ with romantical matters. Humans, whether we like it or not, have not overcome the fantasized, unrealistic notion that soulmates are nothing more than that other significant being that is _perfect_ for you. This causes most people to be blind to those rejected by their soulmates, or individuals who are born with no mark in the first place causing them to be degraded, ridiculed, and deemed ‘incapable of love’.” Enjolras finds himself leaning in closer, his breath rapidly growing faster the more words he gets out. He expected the stranger to cut him off, to snort and tell him that he is nothing but a crazed lunatic. But, to his surprise, the stranger sits calmly in his seat, his eyes wide and eager, “Are you aware that there is an actual law that is on the verge of being passed down by congress at this moment specifying that people born without acquiring a mark shouldn’t be allowed to interact romantically with other people. Not even with people without marks. Sure, they can go out and have sex with other individuals but the prospect of marriage, _the right to be married to whomever they so choose_ is threatening to be taken away from them because some people deem it ‘unholy’. That if some God didn’t give them a mark that, that is enough of an excuse to strip them of ever having any happiness with anyone. This government system has declared them unworthy--no, _incapable_ of love just because they didn’t suddenly grow a fancy mark with a random jumble of words across their bodies. Also, people who have lost their mark in a tragic accident or etcetera before they found their soulmate are somehow now being classified as ‘markless’. Let’s say--uh, a man with his mark written across his arm loses it in a shark attack--”

“A shark attack?” The stranger finally interrupts him, chuckling at the idea Enjolras had come up with on a whim. “Don’t you have a wild imagination. Who would’ve known you were a complete package deal, Apollo? You’re pretty, smart, more than a little naive, and you have a creative side. Aren’t I a lucky man?”

_“Don’t call me pretty._ ” Enjolras says gruffly. “That’s the second time you’ve done it, and I won’t--’

“Alright, _godly it is then_. Or adorably naive. You pick."

 

Enjolras huffs in annoyance, ‘What I’m _saying_ is, the choice of loving whoever you want to love is being taken away from humans--whether you have a mark or not doesn’t matter. The whole concept is dehumanizing. People associate their soulmate as a lover, someone they can trust and--”

“Sure that's what all the storybooks your parents read you when you are little say, and something tells me you aren’t really a fan of those either. But perhaps some higher power is just generous enough to supply all of us with a buddy to have good ol’ fashioned fuck sessions with whenever we please.” The stranger says, bobbing his head up in down.

Enjolras’ grip tightens, against what doesn’t matter. His own palm, the table below, the stranger’s skull maybe. None of it matters. “Oh, _of course_ because we have each other’s first words permanently stitched into our skin like a bunch of branded animals," he pauses, trying desperately to ignore that way the stranger's face lights up in amusement at his words, " _that_ immediately mandates that we’ll have great sex. Is that my understanding of your _logic_ here?”

Enjolras is talking too loud. Far too loud. Multiple people’s heads are already turning in their direction as he speaks. Surprisingly though, he find that he doesn’t care much. All of his focus is directed on the person smirking across from him.

Enjolras wouldn’t believe that the stranger’s smile could get any wider unless it didn’t just happen before his eyes. The stranger beamed at him, thoroughly and completely amused, a rare contrast between when he had first sauntered over here only minutes ago, “I never said it had to be _great_ sex, Apollo. But, if you’re offering, who am I to refu--”

“Shut up.” Enjolras snaps. Was this _really_ happening to him right now? Was this stranger real or just a nightmare of everything he stood against that had somehow organized itself into one living organism and was here to taunt Enjolras.

“Hey, better now than never...or is it? I hear some people never get to find their perfect fuck buddy either, Apollo. Do you fight for them as well or are they the lucky ones?” The stranger asks, his smile is small, but still just as annoying.

Enjolras tries not to wince at his words. He’s been asked this question before, multiple times in fact, but the answer he gives (the only one he could conjure up) still failed to feel right against his lips,  “And does that make it any better? Never finding someone or finding that person--it is a double edge sword formed by the patriarchy that rules so carelessly over this _‘land of the free_ ’. No one gives a shit enough to fight against it, they would rather just let _fate_ take its own course--it's _barbaric._ Statistics show that nearly fourteen percent of the population don’t find their soulmate till they are way over the age of being able to--and by that time it doesn’t even--reproduction or adopting is pointl--” Enjolras’ words get stuck in his throat and, to his horror, the stranger’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “Also able to... _engage in those types of….activities_ …” Enjolras’ face somehow ends up buried, once again within his palms, “Why does that topic keep getting brought up in conversation?”

“Hey now, don’t be telling me there is an age that deems when your grandparents can stop fooling around. Let the old people fuck until they are buried ten feet underground. That’s what I fight for.” The stranger reaches across the table, stilling Enjolras’ movements for a split couple of seconds, before his fingers wrap around the styrofoam cup of cold coffee. Enjolras watches as he brings it carefully up to his lips and takes a long swig, “That’s actually, ha, pretty... _defeatist_ of you to say, wouldn’t you agree?”

Enjolras goes tense. It’s like this guy _knows exactly_ how to set him off.

 

“I’m not being _defeatist._ I’m being…. _realistic?_ ”

The stranger snorted, “Nah, that’s my job. You’re the overly _optimistic_ one. We’ll make quite the pair, you and I.”

Enjolras’ breath hitches. _Cynical….sarcastic and cynical._ Enjolras could die, but instead he just lets out a long, drawn out sigh.

The stranger looked up, his eyes suddenly shielded by bloodshot veins and tiredness that Enjolras failed to fully acknowledge before, “ _I’m joking, alright?_ In fact, I should probably feel a little bit more smitten right now since you obviously got the worse end of this deal.” His lips shift, the smile growing a bit more forced. The motion wasn’t missed by Enjolras as he muttered, “I mean, not everyone gets to say their soulmate looks like a _fucking greek God._ So, which realm of fantasy did you jump out of to tell me what hummus is today, Apollo?"

Enjolras’ breathing was unsteady, but he controlled his frustration as best as he could as he looked at the stranger. Enjolras was annoyed. That much was obvious. But at the same time he felt strangely...content? Arguing was Enjolras' speciality, something he didn't get to do much without throwing a punch. This guy was different though, he made actual points that even Enjolras found hard to correct. He felt no need to punch him, telling him he was wrong and examining why he was wrong was strangely enough.

His collarbone suddenly felt like it had been set ablaze. He wanted to fight him more on this subject, mostly because he didn’t feel like he _changed_ anything. That the man before him was no different than he was before he came over here. The thought infuriated Enjolras, but still he decided wisely not to press it. Instead, his eyes narrowed slightly at the stranger as he said “ _Hummus_. It’s written on your hand. It probably has been for what? At least eight years if not more. How the hell did you not know what it was?”

Enjolras’ voice is only _slightly_ threatening, but the stranger still finds a way to smile through Enjolras’ obvious irritation. His rough, paint-stained fingers suddenly continue looping through the holes of his beanie in his lap as he shrugs, “Never thought about it. Never thought it would _matter_.” The stranger chuckled a bit, his smile widening. “I’m gonna be honest with you. I thought it was your name.”

“My name?”

“It isn’t your name, right?”

“No.” Enjolras snapped.

The stranger laughed at that, “Alright good. Meeting a guy named _Hummus_ has been my ultimate fear since...forever ago. I mean, it’s hard to get your hopes up to meet someone named _Hummus._ ”

Enjolras couldn’t wrap his head around the stupidity that sat before him. All this guy would’ve had to have done was look up one little word. One little word that had been scrawled across his hand for years and--

“Yeah,” The stranger said, casually, drawing back Enjolras’ attention. “I figured I would ask someone for their name and they would give me this answer.” The stranger points lazily to his palm before gripping the edge of his beanie and pulling it back over his head. “So, I avoided asking anyone for their name. For a long time actually. Figured I would let them tell me their name first just to save me the trouble of accidentally finding the infamous _Hummus._ ”

“Oh, you _poor thing,”_ Enjolras said, his eyes boring into the stranger’s. His chest felt tight and the headache that he acquired last night seemed to be getting stronger and stronger by the minute. His collarbone itched, almost burned to the point that Enjolras felt the need to maybe put ice on it, and Enjolras was nearly taken over by the desire to run his fingernails over it. If his attention and anger weren't all focused on the smirking idiot in front of him though, he might’ve, “Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

For the first time in their conversation, the stranger’s smile falters a bit. He looks...uncomfortable. A look Enjolras didn’t think was possible, not on his face. The stranger swallowed awkwardly, his voice strangely hoarse, “Look man, I’m just messing with you. Soulmates are idiotic, alright? I, um, I get it, okay? You’ve made it, ah, pretty damn clear that--look, we don’t have to see each other anymore than we ha--”

“No, you idiot, it’s not because of that.” Enjolras spat, fury lacing every syllable. The stranger still looks completely detached, like he could bolt any minute, but Enjolras is too fired up to care, “ Do you even realize that because of you, _because of what you said_ , I haven’t been able to eat or even be near _cheese_ since I was fifteen years old! Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to eat a thing of easy mac? I couldn’t even eat it alone because it was too much of a risk! Someone could have barged in and said--and said...”

Enjolras breaks off abruptly, knowing that he probably sounds beyond idiotic and childish. The stranger becomes still for a moment, letting Enjolras’ words sink in before he suddenly broke into a series of choked laughs. Enjolras expects to be more annoyed by the bellowing laughs at his torture, but somehow the absence of the distressed look on the stranger’s face is enough of a relief that Enjolras remains relatively quiet. He would rather have him laughing than looking crushed. His laughter echoed around the Musain and only cease to exist when Enjolras snaps at him to stop and threatens to leave. The stranger’s eyes grow damp around the corners from the series of giggles. He shakes his head, his grin never wavering, “No..no, no, don’t leave. I’m good. Really--I just--sorry, okay? I’m sorry for keeping _cheese_ out of your life for so long. I’m sure cheese misses you as well.”

He doesn’t sound genuine at all, Enjolras snorts, an actual small smile playing on his lips, “Whatever.”

After taking a moment to compose himself, whipping the tears away from his eyes and letting out a few shaky breaths, the stranger leans back. He slips his left, tattered glove back onto his hand and extends his fingers a couple of times before looking Enjolras’ way.

“You know,” The stranger says, awkwardly tugging on the collar of his black t-shirt, his face twisted up in discomfort. He releases his hold on the fabric hastily, “You really don’t strike me as someone who has their mark in such a _sensual_ place on the body. Collarbone--that’s hot. I bet you’re pretty popular with the boys back home.”

Enjolras freezes, his hands immediately traveling up towards his collarbone where his white button up shirt did more than just cover that particular area. His fingers unconsciously trace along the familiar words that had haunted him for years, “You can--I mean I’ve read that soulmates have a strong connection but, _damn_ you can already feel where it is?”

“You can’t?” The stranger huffs, taking another chip into his mouth. His teeth crunch down on it loudly before he rolls his eyes, “It’s been bugging me since I walked in here this morning.”

Enjolras quickly glances down at his left palm only to notice for the first time it’s constant and sudden convulsions. _Shit._ Enjolras’ hands clamp together. “I didn’t notice.”

They talked for a great deal longer. Long enough that Enjolras stopped bothering to check his phone to see where Combeferre and Feuilly were and instead focused his entire attention on the stranger in front of him. Time seemed to escape both of them as they rambled on and on, occasionally getting into an argument but it was usually just a spark, nothing big enough to actually alert the rest of the Musain of their differences. Enjolras found himself strangely intrigued and hanging onto to every word that the stranger spoke, whether it be valid or completely wrong didn’t matter.

When the stranger spoke, Enjolras listened and only interjected when he needed to and the stranger offered him the same curtesy. Except when he spoke Enjolras couldn’t help the sudden change the occurred between them, like a secret that neither of them were willing to come out and say. Enjolras has been told by many people that his words are moving and powerful, but he had never even come close to grasping the importance of what he says until this stranger before him listened to him speak. His eyes, dark blue and glossy, became wide with eagerness and the rest of his face let go of any other emotion besides admiration. It was unsettling at first, but Enjolras came to slowly adore the expression that this stranger--a stranger--was making just at hearing his voice, hearing his opinions. That feeling soon faded away when Enjolras finished and the stranger was quick to shoot down every point Enjolras made, but the feeling still happened nonetheless.

“So, now that formalities are out of the way, let’s bring out the real questions,” The stranger smirks, the flare of rebellion back in his eyes. Enjolras’ stomach lurches uncomfortably. “I’m sure with a face like yours you’ve probably gotten enough action to figure out which word sets you off.”

“What about a word?”

The stranger grins at him shamelessly, “ _Oh_ , or is it a letter? A series of letters? Two words, then? Or is it like playing slots, a game of chance? Like-- _drag your tongue across ‘cheese’ and ‘shit’ before sucking on ‘eating’ for a--”_

“I don’t--How could even think that? I would never--.... _how would that even wo_ \--urgh, you’re impossible.” Enjolras mutters, his vision slowly growing red with anger. No, annoyance. An unfathomable _annoyance_ that has Enjolras wanting to grip the ends of his blonde hair and yank down as hard as he could.

He still finds himself smiling though. If only slightly. _Why the fuck is he smiling?_

The stranger chuckles, “I guess we’ll just have to find out later.”

“Or not. _Definitely not._ ” Enjolras does his best to hide the involuntary twitch of his lips at the stranger’s words. “Okay, now I’m leaving.”

“No wait, don’t go. Come on man, it’ just poking fun--you’re just _unreal,_ that’s all. ” The stranger laughs, his hand circling around Enjolras’ wrist to hold him there. His eye squint together in amusement at Enjolras’ probably horrified expression. If Enjolras hadn’t been fuming over the previous rant about social injustice regarding soulmate marks--he may have even thought the look was insanely adorable. Maybe.

Also, the strong, paint-stained hand that had somehow found it’s way over Enjolras’ wrist to keep him from leaving the table wasn’t helping him think straight. _No, it definitely was not helping him think straight. At all_.

Enjolras held his gaze for longer than what seemed necessary, but he wasn’t sure what else to do or even how to respond. There was nothing to be said and too much to be said and Enjolras didn’t know which course would be better to take. Enjolras always spoke his mind, always. It was because of this reason that he got thrown into a jail cell at least three times over the past summer and also why his parents were slightly ashamed of him. (Of course they were proud of him...but yeah, his criminal record definitely didn’t look as good on his otherwise flawless resume as maybe he had once imagined.)

Luckily though, Enjolras didn’t have to choose on what he wanted to say because Courfeyrac’s loud voice suddenly drew him away from his inner thoughts, “Enjolras? Unreal? Yep, that sounds about right.”

The stranger had released his grip on Enjolras’ wrist leaving him feeling cold and making the sudden lull in his mark’s discomfort fade away. The need to scratch it and the burning sensation suddenly returned. Enjolras’ eyes wavered up towards Courfeyrac who was beaming above him, Combeferre and Feuilly close behind him.

“You weren’t invited.” Enjolras deadpanned. Courfeyrac was the last person he needed in a situation such as this, he loved him, but God was he going to give him non-stop shit for this.

Courfeyrac just huffed, waved him off, and sat down next him, “You’re rude.” His eyes moved up to the stranger still sitting before Enjolras. He seemed to have stilled, and for a second Enjolras was surprised he was still there, perhaps thinking that he would have taken the exchange between himself and Courf as a time to scurry away to wherever he came from. Courf eyed him carefully, “Are you going to tell us who your new friend here is, Enjolras? Are you trying to draw in a new, strapping young fellow in for _The Cause_?" Courfeyrac snickered, pointing Enjolras’ way, “This guy--he never takes a break."

The stranger’s eyes perked up a bit, his eyebrows raising indifferently. He eyed Enjolras for a moment, amusement obvious in his expression as he spoke softly, “ _Enjolras…”_

It was only then that Enjolras realized that despite their conversation that lasted far longer than Enjolras could recall, neither had properly introduced themselves. Enjolras opened his mouth, but before he could speak the stranger’s gaze was already on Feuilly, strangely enough. Combeferre had plopped down in the seat next to the stranger and Feuilly had taken the only other empty spot next to Enjolras.

“Sorry we’re late,” Combeferre said, not sounding too sorry about it at all, more annoyed than anything. “Courfeyrac insisted on stopping by that new candle shop down the street.”

“They were having a sale!” Courfeyrac exclaimed as if that was enough of a reason to be a little over an hour late to what was supposed to be friends getting together for breakfast--it was more like lunch now.

“Sorry,” Feuilly said, stealing a couple of tortilla chips before turning back towards Grantaire, “You were telling these heathens who you were I believe.”

The stranger spoke, his words playful and teasing, “Oh me? Surely you must know who I am. I’m the bastard that kept Enjolras here from eating cheese for a good portion of his life.”

Combeferre’s eyes darted up to Enjolras in a hurry, his expression confused and slightly worried. Feuilly choked on the glass of water Chetta had put in front of him only a moment before, and Courf’s face seemed to light up like a child on Christmas morning. It was all Enjolras could do not to bury his face within the confines of his hands once again.

Courfeyrac laughed, his head tilting back dramatically before coming back up. His hands slammed against the table making it rock back a forth and nearly dislodged whatever food still happened to be on Enjolras’ plate. The bowl of hummus shook mockingly in front of Enjolras, who made a point to eye in murderously. _This is all your fault._

Courf said, his eyes wide with childlike excitement, “That’s amazing! Brilliant! Extrordinary! I mean, you got your work cut out for you with this guy, buddy--but spectacular! Lovely! Stupendous! Um, quick ‘Ferre, give me some more adjectives to describe this beautiful moment. Actually, don’t bother, I’ll call Jehan and--”

“So, what’s your name then?” Combeferre cut Courfeyrac off, possibly with a kick to the shin under the table. His eyes darted carefully between Enjolras and the stranger. Enjolras gripped his now cold coffee tightly in his hands, the styrofoam pressing uncomfortably against his nails. He had nothing to say to Combeferre, well nothing he could tell him with just one look across the table.

“Grantaire, or R, I don’t care either way.” He said smoothly. “I’m an art student here. And...I’m guessing you’re all students here on campus as well? I know Feuilly is.”

Feuilly smiled his way, “Nice to see you Grantaire. Congrats on finding um,” His gaze shifted carefully towards Enjolras, before he shrugged. “ _Yeah_. How’s the mural going?”

“It’s going.” Grantaire said simply making Enjolras glare his way.

“How do you know Feuilly?” He snapped. Grantaire only smiled his way, his lips twitching slightly.

“Don’t worry, _puddingcup._ I know him from a few art seminars is all. I haven’t tainted his brain with my cynical thoughts.” His bit his bottom lip, eyes shining Enjolras’ way. “ _Yet_.”

That was it. The last straw that Enjolras had been desperately holding onto since this guy had sauntered up to him, hair a mess and lips pulled into a devilish grin. _Pet names. No fucking--_

__

The styrofoam cup cracked under Enjolras’ grip sending coffee spilling out of the holes and running down his fingers. Enjolras didn’t break eye contact with Grantaire, never let his glare waver, and didn’t stop clenching his hand over the now disfigured, coffee-stained scrap. His teeth were gritted horribly and he was positive that by morning his entire jaw would be cramping, but he didn’t care. He saw red everywhere, not just on the palm of Grantaire’s hand.

 

Combeferre's fingers were already gripping the edge of his nose as he mumbled something along the lines of 'not again...'. Even when Feuilly started chuckling next to him and Courfeyrac stood up and yelled, “Defective cup, here!... _CHETTA WE GOT A DEFECTIVE CUP HERE_ ”, Enjolras’ stare never fell. Not even the disapproving look Combeferre soon shot his way him could cease his irritation.

_Grantaire looked smug. Smitten. Happy._

__

_The asshole._

In the end, they all got something to eat (Enjolras ordering a new sandwich and telling Chetta to take the hummus out of his sight). Grantaire, he found out, was extremely chatty (and sarcastic and cynical and crude and everything that made Enjolras want to glare at him. And no he did not notice how easily him and Courfeyrac were able to converse. And no he was mentally taking notes on what Courfeyrac was doing or saying either to be able to converse so easily with such a person.), like even more chatty than he had already been with Enjolras. Feuilly was busy typing away at his phone, most likely informing everyone about Grantaire. Combeferre, while contributing to the conversation between the two morons occasionally, was more concerned with throwing dubious looks Enjolras’ way. And Enjolras was too busy being, well Enjolras to really add anything to the conversation.

In the end, all of them exchanged numbers. Even Grantaire and Enjolras (who definitely looked skeptical about it considering the way Grantaire asked him for his number. “In case I’m feeling lonely in the middle of the night, muffinnose?”).

“So,” Grantaire said after typing Enjolras’ digits into his phone and putting it back into his coat pocket. His lips were pressed together as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. His eyes eventually darted up towards Enjolras’, “See you around?”

Enjolras bit the inside of his cheek. He could practically feel Courfeyrac’s eyebrows waggling at him from across the room. He let out a sigh, “Yeah. Maybe.”

Grantaire grunted, “How reassuring.”

Enjolras just strode past him and fell in step with Combeferre, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac as they exited the musain. Feuilly was shooting him worried glances and even Courfeyrac looked surprised that Enjolras walked out the shop.

“Where are you going?” Courfeyrac asked, struggling to keep up with Enjolras’ quick paces, “Is Grant--”

“No.” Enjolras snapped, making everyone go silent at his sides.

After a couple minutes of silence, Courfeyrac’s hand raked through his curls, his smirk now nearly completely gone as he leaned in closer to Enjolras as they walked down the crowded streets, further away from the musain, “Look E, I was just giving you shit back there is all. You should go back. I know you’re known for your wicked self control or whatever, but this is different. Take it from personal experience. You’re not gonna wanna be away too long especially after you just first met--”

“I’ve lived my entire life without Grantaire’s presence,” Enjolras said, pointedly. His hands wrapped around his thin, red coat despite the sun being more than enough to keep him warm. “What makes you think that I need it now just because of a dumb mark?”

Courfeyrac fell silent next to him. His eyes hard. He might’ve mumbled something along the line of ‘prepare yourself for hell, buddy’, but Enjolras was already focused on the cracks in the cement before them. His shoes smacked against them in wonder. His mind was already buzzing with arguments on violations of public safety due to the sudden dips and openings in the walkway through campus.

 

 

~~~

 

 

“You should talk to him.”

“No.”

That is about how far Combeferre decides he wants to get into this mess. Enjolras doesn’t blame him. His friend only sighs, shoves his glasses farther up the brink of his nose, and refocuses back onto the textbook in his lap.

Enjolras laid on his bed, his limbs sprawled out and a raging headache forming near the front of his skull. It was nothing though when compared to the vicious flames flowing between his left palm and collarbone. Enjolras winced as another shot of burning pain flashed behind the back of his eyes before running down his arm, circling around his collar bone for a brief moment, and burrowing itself deep within his left palm like a parasite. He hefted his head back and nearly connected with the wall, a low groan escaped past lips, “It hurts.”

Combeferre’s eyebrows raised over the book in his hands. It had been five days since Grantaire had stumbled into Enjolras’ life, hungover and cynical as hell. They hadn’t seen each other since and it was obvious to everyone in Enjolras’ life that it was starting to get to him. It wasn’t just the deep red hue the settled in the middle of his palm or the bluish, blackish tint that trailed up the side of his neck and imbedded itself into his collar bone, accenting each word almost mockingly. It was more than that. It was draining. Both physically and mentally and despite Musichetta’s threats to ‘drag R and Enjolras to the Musain to put them both out of their misery’, Enjolras declined her offer firmly, declaring that it would only make it worse. (Jehan had scoffed so loudly at Enjolras’ remark that the couple at the table next to them were left throwing him weary looks the rest of the night).

But, despite the headaches, chest pains, burning sensations, inability to sleep because every time he closed his eyes he saw nothing but Grantaire’s cheeky grin--Enjolras’ hadn’t uttered a word of complaint. Or even dare show any signs of weakness even though at times he felt as though he may collapse any minute if he stood for too long without something to support himself. He showed up to meetings, went to lectures, continued to hang out with friends. Every event became more draining and painful than the last. He could hardly even walk by the Musain without memories daring to flood into his mind and remind his body why he was in so much pain.

Now though, Combeferre had put his book down, Enjolras’ eyes were closed and he had shamefully draped an arm over his face, “It hurts like fucking hell. Okay? I-I can’t eat, I can’t sleep--I can hardly think at all unless it’s about him and his stupid fucking hummus! I know they aren’t my thoughts. It’s--It’s this _bond,_ but, urgh, it’s still unbearable. I just wanna...die. Kill me, ‘Ferre. Tell my story. Tell my great grandmother I’m sorry about the cake.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes, “You don’t want to _die,_ Enjolras. The fact that you are resorting to sarcasm as a coping method says more than enough.”

“Oh my God,” Enjolras groaned, rolling onto his side. “I’m turning into him.”

“You’ve read every book in the entire library in our hometown about soulmates. You know that isn’t how it works at all. The history, the symptoms--you know everything. I remember watching you do it in our free time in fifth grade all the way through high school. You know the drill as well as anyone else. The first couple days you two aren’t supposed to be apart. It’s unhealthy and damaging; Joly would have your head right now if he knew what you were doing. You have to slowly, and gradually, work your way up to being separated. It’s how it works no matter how much you protest about the wrongness of it all. You’re just being unconventionally stubborn for no real reason other than to be stubborn.”

“How could you say that?” Enjolras shuffled up, his face splotchy and red. His limbs felt weak, but his voice was still strong enough to portray that Combeferre’s words had hurt him, “This goes against everything I believe in--everything I stand for--”

“Everything? You’re being dramatic. You believe in everything, Enjolras. Everyone.” Combeferre said, calmly. “You’re just scared, unsure, and instead of dealing with your feelings you are blaming them on the notion that you believe soulmate marks are wrong and--”

“They are.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that it is your responsibility to take care of it. Honestly, am I your mother or something?” Combeferre sighed when Enjolras mumbled a faint ‘yes’. He just shook his head before peeling off his glasses and cleaning off the lenses in between the folds of his shirt. His face suddenly scrunched together in an expression Enjolras’ didn’t recognize, not on Combeferre’s face anyway, maybe Marius’, “Have you even talk to him since then?”

Enjolras huffed, his shoulders sagging slightly, “Not, not exactly. Not unless you count dreams telling him to shut up about George Bush’s presidency--.”

Combeferre just shook his head and gave Enjolras a hard look, “ _E_ , don’t tell me it hasn’t even crossed your mind that--”

“What? I didn’t--”

“--that he could be feeling just as much pain as you are right now. Honestly, I love you, but dammit I don’t get how your mind works sometimes.”

Enjolras finds himself resisting the urge to curl up into a ball and burrow himself underneath the covers, half because of Combeferre’s words and half because of the sudden spark of pain igniting in his chest. He winces, “If it were this bad he would call me. He has my number. Anyway, what help would I be? We would just bicker.”

Combeferre just shakes his head before standing up, textbook in hand, “You’re unreal.”

He exits Enjolras’ room quickly and quietly, leaving Enjolras to sulk alone in the dark, textbooks and notebooks sprawled around him like some fucked up seance circle.

_You’re unreal._ The words have a familiar ring to them that Enjolras finds himself wanting to shake out of his mind.

Enjolras shivers, because of the wave of pain echoing through his head and not because of the memory of Grantaire’s hand around his wrist of course. Burrowing himself deeper within the confines of his sheets, Enjolras prepares himself for another sleepless, dream induced night.

****  


~~~

Not many things surprise Enjolras. He is a composed, organized individual who was known to be on top things things before there were even things to get on top of. Now, Enjolras still is indeed human (despite Courfeyrac’s certainty that he is a machine of some sort) and tends to get surprised just like everyone else from time to time. Meeting your soulmate after years and years of trying to avoid them only to find out that he is a cynical, drunk, sarcastic, curly-haired, extremely attractive, idiot art student with a knack for making unnecessary mythology references would be on the very top of the list of things that surprised Enjolras.

Now though, as he stood in his own doorway only half-awake, Enjolras is positive that meeting his soulmate in a cafe was now pushed down to number two.

He squinted down at Grantaire in confusion for a moment before his chest suddenly exploded with relief. The tightness in his chest had grown to a point over the last couple of days where he was beginning to experience breathing problems. Now though, as Grantaire stood before him, beanie thrown carelessly on top of his untidy curls and gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, Enjolras felt all the pain, anxiousness, and fear diminish from within him. He almost felt cleansed in a strange way.

By the look that came across Grantaire’s face, Enjolras could tell he must feel it too. His eyes were more bloodshot and tired than the last time he remembered, but eventually they fluttered closed as he let out a long sigh filled with blessed relief. He muses, a small smile on his lips, “ _Damn_ , I needed that a lot more than I thought I would. Sorry...that probably sounds really fucking creepy but--"

“Same.” Enjolras said, a little breathless. Grantaire’s eyes open in surprise.

“I--um, yeah. I-I didn’t stalk you.” Grantaire said, his eyebrows furrowing together in worry.

Enjolras just shakes his head while running a hand through his frazzled curls. He is at this point still only really half awake. For all he knows this is just another one of his infamous Grantaire dreams. “What are you talking about?”

Grantaire shifts, his leather boots swaying against the concrete floor, “I thought you would wonder how I knew--I asked Courfeyrac where you lived, okay? Nothing creepy about that...I didn’t like follow you home even though. Shit, this is coming out wrong…”

“A little. Just--”

“I needed to ask you a medical question is all.” Grantaire suddenly decides upon, his unfocused eyes suddenly dawning on Enjolras. He looks…exhausted. A complete different Grantaire than the one Enjolras is used to seeing in his dreams that is. He is wearing a loose band t-shirt that looks like it might rip at just the faintest tug and baggy grey sweat pants that have food stains and dirt splattered on then. The stubble on his face has grown in more thick and is making Enjolras doubt how far Grantaire could take this ‘slob’ look he has been pulling off since they first met. Sure, Grantaire wasn’t the tidiest person Enjolras knew (and he knew Joly) but still. Grantaire’s entire appearance made the tightness in his chest dare to return. He looked...broken. Drained. He looked like what Enjolras had been suffering through since the last time they met.

“I already know the answer.” Enjolras’s voice sounds scratchy and dazed, his eyes flutter open and close rapidly. “You need to get some sleep.”

Grantaire chuckles, or attempts to, it comes out more like a choked gasp, “I could say the same about you, Apollo. What did you do to anger the Gods into dooming you to the fate of bags and horrible bed head?”

Enjolras’ mind is frazzled. He hasn’t slept in days and if anyone asks him about his actions in the future he will blame it on that. But, nevertheless, Enjolras reaches out, almost like an instant reflex, his hand fitting perfectly alongside Grantaire’s rigid face as his thumb ghosts over his pale cheekbone. Grantaire’s tired eyes are suddenly wide with astonishment by the time Enjolras says, “I left someone important behind.”

After a moment, Grantaire’s left hand comes up and mimics the same position Enjolras’ hand has taken. Except this time the cheap fabric of Grantaire's glove rubbing against Enjolras’ skin is more uncomfortable than anything, but at the same time the explosion of warmth that spreads through Enjolras at just the simple touch of Grantaire’s hand is almost too much for him to complain about his horrible choice in gloves. He leans into it easily.

Grantaire’s voice is quiet, but alluring all the same, “Well, I’m here now.”

Enjolras can’t help the smile that comes onto his face as he lets his hand against Grantaire’s face drop and instead reaches up and places his hand against Grantaire’s hand, holding it against his face. Grantaire gives him a brief look of confusion before Enjolras links their fingers together tightly. The feeling that comes with the simple hold is like nothing Enjolras has ever experienced. Pain, worry, anxiety--they all feel like a thing of the past as his hold on Grantaire tightens. His muscles relax and he feels complete, like his life before was a jagged puzzle that once seemed doomed to never be completed until now.

He figures Grantaire can feel it as well because he doesn’t protest when Enjolras drags him into his apartment, closing the door behind him hastily. Grantaire follows without complaint as Enjolras continues to lead him through the house, a smile prominent on his features. His mind is clouded but has also never felt more soothed and lulled by something as simple as hand-holding, but he doesn’t dare question it for one moment, terrified at the aspect that it may disappear.

Grantaire, on the other hand, laughs from behind him, already sounding ten times more livelier than before, “Where are you taking me?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer at first, just opens the door to his bedroom and drags Grantaire in, “Heaven.” He manages, his grip tightening against the scratchy fabric covering Grantaire’s hand.

Grantaire, a little taken aback at first, is now grinning up at Enjolras through shielded eyes, “Lead the way.”

A couple more steps (carefully coordinated steps through the piles of books and papers) and him and Grantaire fall onto Enjolras’ bed in a mangle of limbs both feeling more free and more relieved and more _alive_ than the other.

****  


~~~

****  


Enjolras is the first to wake up. Of course he is. Sleep, even before he met Grantaire, never seemed to agree with him much. His mind was always working, always thinking of new ways, things, and ideas. His mind had no use for sleep, but his body completely disagreed especially at times like these.

His blinks up at the dark sky and harsh moonlight bleeding in through his curtains and sighs knowing that he had wasted the entire day away. Well, not wasted, but still let it slip by him in a way. He is hesitant at first, but eventually shifts quietly on top of the mattress, carefully not to disrupt anything. His limbs are almost completely tangled in his sheets, but his toes still jut out from underneath the covers and  hover underneath the window. How long have they been there? Enjolras doesn’t really know, but one thing he does know is that they are _fucking cold_ and that if he doesn’t move them soon they are going to fall off.

His pillow is tucked underneath his neck securely, but he pushes it up with his free hand and once again attempts to shift upwards only to be stopped by an arm suddenly tightening around his bare torso. It’s too dark to see clearly, but slowly he realizes that he would know exactly who it was even if he was in complete darkness. The curly, frizzy hair rubbing against his ribcage along with the cheap fabric of a certain pair of gloves tracing down the tendons in his neck and running down his sternum shouldn’t feel as familiar as it does. But still, Enjolras found himself relaxing against the strong hold on him.

“If you’re thinking you’re moving any time soon,” Grantaire’s voice is muffled against the sheet of the bed and Enjolras’ chest. He snuggles closer and lets out a short sigh, “I’m here to tell you, you are mistakenly wrong, my friend.”

“Oh really?” Enjolras asks, surprised at the amusement in his voice.

Apparently Grantaire is to, because his head comes up from Enjolras’s chest to look up at him, “ _Really._ I’m not ready for this to be over. You dragged me into this, let me enjoy it.”

Enjolras hums, “Did you enjoy it?”

“You told me it was heaven; I completely agree with you.” Grantaire says, Enjolras can almost hear the smile on his lips through his words.

“I agree as well.” Enjolras says, finally tucking his toes back under the covers once he gives Grantaire’s torso a reassuring squeeze allowing him to shift into a more comfortable position. His head lies back on his pillow, his mind is completely free of any migraine that has been plaguing him for nearly a week and a half. It is utter bliss and the heat of Grantaire’s body next to his makes it all the more pleasant.

“We should do this more often.” Grantaire says quietly.

“Huh? You want to do it again? For that long?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I wanna be in heaven with a God himself for--however long we’ve been here?” Grantaire asks, burying his face back into Enjolras’s chest with a pleasant hum.

Enjolras can’t help his hand that comes up and begins carefully playing with the ends of Grantaire’s curls, twirling them innocently between his fingertips, “I just--I didn’t think you would want to is all. I thought you would think this was kinda...boring?”

“What? You honestly don’t think I wanna sleep with you again?” Grantaire asks, his voice still drowsy with tiredness, but even Enjolras doesn’t miss the obvious sarcasm in his tone.

“We slept for thirteen hours straight, Grantaire. That’s it. We literally didn’t do anything else. We came in here and fell asleep.” Enjolras deadpanned. He wasn’t disappointed by the turnout. It was what he honestly planned to do when he first dragged Grantaire into his room anyway. Only now that he woke up did he worry that maybe he had mislead Grantaire a little bit about his true intentions…

“You didn’t.” Grantaire said simply. Enjolras’ clamped his mouth shut, unaware that he was saying everything he was thinking so blatantly. He felt Grantaire’s shrug beneath his shoulder, “To be honest, for a slight second I thought that maybe you were gonna let me suck on your mark, but sleeping turned out to be what we both needed badly.”

Enjolras grip suddenly tightens on Grantaire, his fingers imbedded deeper into his curls as he pulls him closer. His voice is quiet, “I’m sorry, R. I am. I--I shouldn’t have left your side. I know it was wrong and I knew this would happen but--” Enjolras heaves out a sigh, Grantaire makes a sudden noise on top of him, “--I’m an idiot.”

Grantaire snorts, “Yeah you are.”

Enjolras’ pulls back a little, but not far enough that his hold on Grantaire is anymore less secure, “I may not agree with this sort of thing--I don’t, this _soulmate_ idea--and I’m not willing to make any promises that I may not be able to keep, but I will never leave you alone to suffer again, okay? Not when I can help it.”

 

“Thanks Romeo.” Grantaire says jokingly, though he does sound a bit winded at the same time.

Enjolras smiles, probably a little too much. He has never been more thankful that it is nearly pitch black in his room. He gulps, “So um, what medical question did you have?”

“Hmm?”

“When you came here,” Enjolras begins, suddenly terrified that he had dreamt that whole part up. “I’m--I could be mistaken but--”

“Nah, you right. I just forgot for a second.” Grantaire says, shifting a little next to Enjolras. “I can’t show you in the dark like this, and I’m guessing it’s probably gone away now, but--”

“What is it?” Enjolras asks, his eyebrows furrowing in worry and his muscles suddenly tensing up. He doesn’t mean to do it, but something inside of him seemed to spark at the thought of something being wrong with Grantaire. Grantaire--the annoying, sarcastic, hindrance that had caused him pain, misery, and sleep deprivation for a week and a half--and then of course repaid him with relief and completeness but that’s a completely different matter.

“It’s just, my hand and collarbone got really fucking bad. Like, bruised and sometimes the words would start bleeding and oozing this weird purple goo--

“Bleeding?” Enjolras blurted out, completely mortified now. He was about to get up, throw the sheets off the two of them, hall Grantaire onto his back, and race to Joly’s apartment immediately when a noise stopped him. A sound that was music and screeching to his ears. Grantaire’s laughter. He forced himself to relax and let out a long sigh, “You’re joking.”

“You know me too well, Apollo.” Grantaire chuckled. “Sorry, I can never pass up the chance to make you squirm. It’s surprisingly very entertaining.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Enjolras grumbled. His gaze shifted down towards Grantaire, still bundled up next to him, their legs intertwined and arms around one another like some fucked up human pretzel. “We should get up and eat something.”

“It’s like two in the morning.”

“Who cares. I’m starving.”

“Fine,” Grantaire finally sighs, sitting up a little before flashing a grin Enjolras way, “Only if you cook me something.”

****  


~~~

Six days later, and multiple tries of trying to make a decent meal on Enjolras’ part, and Grantaire finally puts his foot down and banished him from the kitchen.

Grantaire’s idea of Enjolras ‘cooking’ something turned out to be more of a disaster than either of them avoiding each other for a week in and half could’ve caused. Enjolras was only in the kitchen for thirty minutes and had managed to ruin two pans, make a pot full of water bubble over when he was literally staring right at it, set a box of cereal on fire (don’t ask, he wasn’t even trying to use the cereal), break Combeferre’s toaster, and waste a half gallon of milk on a recipe that literally didn’t need milk.

“You’re a mess.” Grantaire had said after the second time he had to use the fire extinguisher to put out what Enjolras deemed a ‘small fire’. Grantaire had shuffled him out of the kitchen as quickly as Enjolras would allow and said, “Don’t come in here...don’t even be within ten feet of here. I’m cooking. _Again_.”

When Grantaire emerged from the kitchen the whole house flooded with the painfully familiar, yet deadly scent. _Cheese_.

Enjolras stood up from his position on the couch, literally almost chucking his laptop off his lap in the process, before stomping towards the small kitchen area. He couldn’t exactly tell what he was doing or whether or not he was really angry or not. It was just...the nerve of Grantaire to actually cook cheese in his presence was so--

“Smells good right?” Grantaire said, grinning from ear to ear with a bowl of yellow noodles in his hands. His gloves were still on, Enjolras noticed even after six days of Grantaire coming in and out of his apartment as their bond worked itself out and made it so they didn’t need to be so codependent on one another, but he forced himself to bite his tongue and not ask the why. Grantaire set the bowl down on the table and then proceeded to trim back into the kitchen to fetch plates and silverware.

“Smells like you’re trying to be a little asshole.” Enjolras mutters, only half-joking. But Grantaire laughs all the same and soon they are both sitting across from each other at Enjolras’ sorry-excuse for a dining room table. “Where did you even get cheese?”

“I picked some up after my like third night here. It’s been in your fridge for the past couple days. You really aren’t that observant, are you? Too busy concerning yourself with _The Cause_ than what horrors are lying in your fridge, huh?” Grantaire said, his lips curving up into a smile.

Enjolras just scowled at him and rolled his eyes.

“It’s like, um, macaroni and cheese….but you didn’t have any macaroni so I, um, used noodles instead?” Grantaire offered, scooping some of the cheese drenched noodles onto his own plate in two large spoonfuls. “Come on, enough with that face. I had to make you something cheesey, it’s the least I can do after eating your food for the past couple of days and--oh yeah, dooming you to a _cheeseless_ existence.”

“No, the least you could do was know what the hell hummus was.” Enjolras grumbled, but still took a spoonful of the cheesy noodles.

Grantaire offers him a lopsided smile before both of them dug in. Enjolras was hesitant at first. He trusted Grantaire and his surprisingly amazing cooking skills he had been showing off for the past couple of days--but this was different. This was cheese.

His fork hovered dangerously above the cheesy substance for far too long before Grantaire’s whining from across the table started to give Enjolras a headache and he caved. Twisting a couple of noodles in between the spikes of his fork, Enjolras lifted the cheesy noodles up to his mouth with great care.

Grantaire watched until Enjolras chewed and swallowed, looking thoroughly amused the whole time. He asked, “So...was it everything you dreamed of and more?”

“Honestly?” Enjolras asked, twirling up another piece. “I think I’m more of a meat and red sauce kind of guy when it comes to eating noodles.”

~~~

Soon, they are both done with the big bowl of noodles and are feeling sick but content. Enjolras had insisted on doing dishes by himself (the one thing he could accomplish in the kitchen), but Grantaire still managed to find a way to help by putting away the salt, pepper, and leftovers napkins.

The smell of cheese still wafted around the apartment, putting Enjolras a little bit more on edge than he would normally ever be, when they finally slumped down onto the couch. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to knee. It was only when they were halfway through their second episode of That 70’s Show that Grantaire’s titled his head back and gave Enjolras a look.

Enjolras noticed immediately and didn’t even bothering asking Grantaire what he wanted. Instead, he wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in tight against his chest. Grantaire let out a pleased hum before scooting closer and wrapping an arm around his waist and letting their legs tangle together upon the coffee table they were propped up on. At this point, neither of them were surprised by how natural the motion of cuddling up on the couch, sleeping in the same bed, holding hands even when they were both just in Enjolras’ apartment doing nothing seemed to feel. It just felt-- _right_.

Relief exploded in Enjolras’ chest at the touch and he knew that part was the bond. The need to be close and touching was nothing more than ‘fate’ pulling them together. He wasn’t stupid enough to be blindsided by this, and he hoped Grantaire wasn’t either. It had gotten less strong over the past couple of days where it was becoming more of a want than a need to be touching and Enjolras...was okay with that?

He expected the feeling of needing a constant connection to fade away and become bearable over time, but something he didn’t expect was his utter contentment with it all. He didn’t mind having Grantaire close, whether the bond said they had to or not. He enjoyed running his fingers absentmindedly through his ink black curls, the way Grantaire’s arm tightened around his waist whenever something funny happened on the screen, the way Grantaire could go on for hours talking about art and his home back in Paris, the way his laugh echoed around Enjolras’ small apartment, the brilliant things he was able to cook with Enjolras’ low supply of kitchen materials, the way he clasped their hands together at night when they slept side by side (even though at that point they probably didn’t need to share the same bed, but neither of them dared bring that fact up), and suddenly he realized he felt no ill will towards Grantaire anymore for not knowing what hummus was.

_He felt happy._

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered, afraid he might be asleep after their fourth episode in a row without saying anything. “you awake?”

“Hmm?” Grantaire hummed, sounding awake but tired.

“Why are you still wearing those gloves?” Enjolras asked, his eyes drifting down to his chest where Grantaire’s tattered gloved hand rested. He didn’t mean to be so blunt about it--he wasn’t planning on bringing it up at all--but he was just as tired as Grantaire and would most likely blame it on sleep deprivation the next time they spoke.

For now though, Grantaire only sighed, his exposed fingers digging a little bit into the soft fabric on Enjolras’ shift, “You’re not the only one that has a problem with soulmate marks, Apollo.”

Enjolras went still at that. Their first conversation consisted of Enjolras explaining in great detail why he didn’t believe in soulmates. Was he really so selfish as to not ask Grantaire what his was? Clearing his throat, Enjolras said, “I’m listening.”

Grantaire shifted slightly, not enough to make Enjolras think he wanted to leave, but enough to make Enjolras instinctively draw the arm around his shoulder tighter towards his chest. Grantaire said, “Well, it’s really not my story to tell but...I guess I have nothing to hide from you really. It started out a couple years ago, I, um, have this friend. She’s the best, like a sister to me really, except she is terrifying and will cut anyone who crosses her without a second thought. But, she’s also my best friend even though if you asked her she would probably say she didn’t have any friends because she likes to be mysterious like that.” The tone in Grantaire’s voice was fond and Enjolras found himself smiling above him. “But, everything went to shit a couple years ago when some asshole said her words and…”

“What?” Enjolras asked, after the pause lasted far too long.

“She didn’t say his words back.” Grantaire spoke softly, pain etched into his words. He laughed a little, but the laugh was dark and sounded wrong even to Enjolras’ ears. “That’s fate right? So, this prick just says sorry and leaves--no, that isn’t right. He is a dumb kid and tried to stay in touch--tried to be friends with her but...in the end that only made it worse. Ep fell in love with the idiot and when he found his soulmate she was...dammit, she was crushed. She felt like it was her fault, can you believe that? Blames herself for not saying his words when he said hers. It’s--It’s dumb, and it was a mistake, but Eponine still fucking hates herself for it to this day.”

Enjolras was silent for a moment, letting the words sink in, before saying, “And the gloves?”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Her mark is written across her throat and mine on my left hand so. I guess we kinda just agreed to cover them up? Me with gloves her with a scarf or choker. You know, rebel against society and fate and all that shit.” Grantaire said and Enjolras couldn’t have smiled wider. “I haven’t told her about you yet.” Grantaire spoke, his voice unnaturally quiet and tense. “I know I should but--”

“You’re afraid she’ll be mad. Or sad, at least.” Enjolras finished.

“Yeah, I mean I was the one who got her through all that Marius shit, you know? I would practically hold her until she fell asleep telling her that soulmates don’t matter, that they are just a made up scenario by the government to fuck--”

“Marius?” Enjolras suddenly interjects, his body going rigid against Grantaire’s.

 

“Yeah. My friend--Eponine, I mean--that guy said her--”

“Pontmercy?” Enjolras asks and now it is time for Grantaire to go silent underneath him. “I-I know him. Hell, I’m forced to hang out with him at least once a week.”

“No fucking way.” Grantaire laughs, titling his head back to look up at Enjolras. His face is soft, like the conversation may have stressed him out at first, but now he is once again relaxing under Enjolras’ touch. “Small world, I guess. I think the last time I talked to him was about a month ago.”

“Marius never told me about--”

“Eponine.”

“Yeah. In fact, I don’t think any of us know that he--”

“His soulmate does, the little blonde girl. But other than that Eponine made him swear to keep it a secret. Like I said, she is mysterious like that.”

There was a pause. A moment where there was nothing except the sound of the TV completely forgotten in front of them and the feeling of their bodies pressed up against one another. It was soothing, like a weight had been lifted off Enjolras’s shoulders and he was now floating blissfully. Grantaire must’ve felt it too because he gently laid his head upon Enjolras’ chest, snuggling closer.

“I’m sorry about your friend.” Enjolras said, quietly.

“Don’t be,” Grantaire mumbled back. “Ep’s a tough cookie, she’ll be fine-- _has_ been fine. The last thing she wants is pity, trust me.”

“Has she tried talking to anyone? To--to--”

He is cut off by Grantaire’s small laugh, “No, Apollo, she would rather her soulmate be a fucking bolder than talk to someone about this. I’ve tried.”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras started, his eyebrows furrowing in determination. “You met him at the Musain. He was at the meeting?”

“Your social justice club, you mean?” Grantaire grinned up at him. Enjolras had taken Grantaire to the Musain two days ago after much insistence from Grantaire that he shouldn’t miss it on his behalf. They compromised (after at least three hours of arguing) by Enjolras dragging Grantaire to the ‘Save the Whales Club’ (Grantaire’s words obviously) and introducing him to everyone there who, much to Enjolras’ relief, took an immediate liking to him. Sure, the whole meeting was spent doing what he and Grantaire normally did even when they were cooped up in his apartment, that being arguing with one another, of course. But the others didn’t seem to mind, they were even faintly amused by him and Grantaire in fact. (Especially Courfeyrac who, whenever there was an awkward silence where he and Grantaire would just stare each other down, would lean over to Jehan and whisper, “The sexual tension is killing me.”)

Enjolras continued, “Yeah. Maybe he could talk to her? He is studying a little psychology right now and is at least a thousand times better at talking to people about feelings--or about anything in general-- than me--”

“I believe that.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, obviously annoyed that Grantaire was bringing this topic back up _again_ , “Hey, don’t be an asshole. You didn’t talk to me either that first week and a half.”

“Because I thought you fucking hated me.” Grantaire said, trying to sound sarcastic but coming off as something entirely different. Something that made Enjolras’ chest tighten in worry.

“No,” Enjolras’ voice came out way harsher than he intended it to be and on a hunch his other arm instantly came around, tugging Grantaire’s body impossibly close to his. His lips were suddenly hovering dangerously close to Grantaire’s forehead, and even Enjolras couldn’t help himself when he leaned in and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Grantaire’s temple. When Enjolras pulled back, Grantaire was still underneath him, “I don’t. I really, _really_ don’t.”

Grantaire laughs a bit, softly, “I believe you.”

“And, it’s not just this bond,” Enjolras continued, the feeling of having to explain himself becoming too overwhelming to simply ignore. “I would be lying if I said that is what drew me to you first, but--you’re not as terrible as I thought you were going to be.”

Enjolras immediately regretted the words once he said them. He could kick himself. Really. He could.

To his relief though, Grantaire laughed underneath him, burying his face deeper into Enjolras’s chest to stifle his giggles, “Wow, don’t you know just what to say to a man to get him all exci--”

“I--I didn’t mean it like that.” Enjolras struggled, pulling Grantaire’s shoulders back a little in order to look him in the eye. Grantaire’s eyes were impossibly blue and impossibly wide as they stared up at him. “Really. I didn’t. I just--I wanna give this a shot.”

“You what?” Grantaire asked, mouth slightly agape.

“It’s true, I don’t believe in soulmates and I don’t think I ever will.” Grantaire’s face fell a little at his words, but instantly lit up again as Enjolras reached down to interlock their fingers. The rough fabric of the glove scraped against the inside of his palm. “But, that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna--I mean...be with you.”

Grantaire beamed at him. “Go on, Romeo. I’m listening.”

Enjolras shook his head, smiling despite himself as he pulled up Grantaire’s left hand still intertwined with his. He released his grip, if only for a moment, in order to gently pull the tattered glove off of Grantaire’s hand, exposing the fine red print etched onto his palm. Enjolras found himself hesitantly laying a gentle kiss on the mixture of words, his lips hovering for only a few seconds before he pulled away.

Grantaire looked winded when Enjolras looked up at him again and said, “We’re soulmate, I’m not going to deny that ever again. I still don’t believe in it and I’m definitely going to still talk out against it and hold protests about it. Because, well, that’s what I do.”

“I’ll be right by your side then.” Grantaire said, smiling through shielded eyes.

“Yes,” Enjolras breathed. “But, I wanna get to know you--to come to like you ever more through simply hanging out with one another. Like what we’ve been doing. I don’t want our whole relationship to be based off of some bond.”

Grantaire’s smile grew, as his hand once again became intertwined with Enjolras’, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Enjolras smiled, relief and warmth spreading through him at just the sight of Grantaire. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest, yet he had never felt so calm while in the presence of another. It was as if his whole life had been nothing but trial and error, waiting and leading him up to this exact moment of pure joy and solitude. It was cliche, and by the sappy look Grantaire was giving him Enjolras knew that he knew this as well, but neither of them seemed to mind or dared mention it.

Instead, they kept their eyes locked and their hands locked tighter before Grantaire said, “You know, this is kind of like a….fourth date. If you think about it.”

“Fourth?” Enjolras asked, amused.

“Yeah.” Grantaire continued, scooting closer. “I’m counting that time we first met at the Musain, that time you almost burnt your own apartment down when trying to make me something so I ended up making us sandwiches, and….um, the time you had me pick you up from your office because you missed the bus--definitely date worthy. And now.”  

Enjolras laughed, but nodded. “Yep, you forgot our date that was literally a thirteen hour nap.”

Grantaire’s eyes lowered, his gaze drifting upon Enjolras’ lips, “That was my favorite. Most memorable out of all of them.”

“And what about this one?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire’s eyes widened suddenly, like he didn’t expect Enjolras to play along. Not for this long anyway. His lips slowly melted into a smirk, “Well...we're still on a date. I’ve decided this right now. And, I think it’s customary to kiss your date goodnight before--”

Enjolras didn’t need to be asked twice. Instead, he swooped down and pressed his lips delicately onto Grantaire’s who made a surprised squeak in the back of his throat before melting into the kiss. The kiss was short and slow, nothing either of them didn’t want and Enjolras still felt like he was up with the stars when they both pulled away.

Grantaire smiled up at him, his black curls only slightly ruffled and his eyes looking much less tired than they were almost every other time Enjolras had seen him. The smile drifted dangerously into a smirk as Grantaire announced, “You taste like cheese.”

Enjolras might’ve muttered something else, most likely along the lines of ‘fuck you’, before once again stealing Grantaire’s lips with his own.

 

_~~~_

  
_And if the week following that Grantaire invites Eponine, curled up in thick black scarf and studded combat boots, to one of the meetings and she ends up bumping into a tall, dark-haired man with way too many books in his hands and thick glasses that sends her flying back and yelling ‘Fuck Nuggets’ before both of them fall to the ground--well then that’s just fate being a little asshole._

**Author's Note:**

> This was really long. So congrats if you made it through the whole mess. ^_^


End file.
